


Falling Down Under the Pale Moonlight

by NestingHedwig_aka_LinW



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Bonding, Christmas Eve, Gen, Handicapped Harry, Multi, Out of Character, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-01
Updated: 2007-11-01
Packaged: 2018-09-28 11:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10096937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NestingHedwig_aka_LinW/pseuds/NestingHedwig_aka_LinW
Summary: Severus and Harry's first Christmas together doesn't go exactly as planned. Written before DH, this little confection is both non-cannon and AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including, but not limited to Scholastic Books and Warner Bros. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended; no monetary gain will be made from this story.  
Beta: None. Any mistakes are my own  
Archive: Part of the From Dusk till Dawn Severus Snape/Harry Potter Fuh-Q-Fest at http://www.kardasi.com/HPSS/storyindex.htm  
Challenge: Wave XII – What if….The European Wizarding community shared Percival Weasley’s opinion that Harry would become the next Dark Lord.  
Secondary Challenges:  
Challenge 119: After the defeat of Voldemort, Harry’s personality goes extreme, either withdrawing into himself or constantly throwing himself into dangerous situations. Sev steps in to help. (AnaRae)  
Challenge 93: Snape and Harry’s first Christmas celebration together. (Kira)

~*~*~*~  
Falling Down Under the Pale Moonlight  
~*~*~*~

 

“We were drawn from the weeds  
We were brave like soldiers  
Falling down under the pale moonlight  
You were holding on to me  
Like someone broken  
And I couldn’t tell you, but I’m telling you now

Just let me hold you while you’re falling apart  
Just let me hold you so we both fall down”

\- “Ever the Same” lyrics by Rob Thomas

~*~*~*~  
Nurse Clara Barton paused at the door leading into the Art Therapy room. There were a few patients painting ceramic figurines and one or two placing watercolor to paper. In the corner, away from everyone else, sat a slender male figure in a wheelchair; he was sitting beside the large window overlooking a scruffy garden and cutting small shapes out of an assortment of decorative papers.

Nurse Barton approached the patient in question, an injured British Corporal. He was part of a group of NATO Peacekeepers, injured when a suicide bomber riding a bicycle detonated himself in a crowd of Afghan civilians, injuring twenty-seven, many of them children. The attack killed four Canadian Peacekeepers and maimed an additional ten soldiers in the multi-national force. Originally med-evaced by a NATO Air Mobile Medical Team to Ramstein Air Base in Germany, the severely wounded British soldiers soon found themselves shipped on to England and placed in less than ideal mixed civilian/military wards at the Selly Oaks NHS Hospital in Birmingham.

Like many of the wounded soldiers, she felt that this young man was badly in need of psychiatric services, but due to budget and manpower constraints, solitude and the Art Therapy room was the best that they could offer him. A pretty piss poor reward for serving his country, Nurse Barton thought.

The nurse approached the corporal, curious to see what he was creating that afternoon. Over the past few days, the injured soldier had been working on a series of simple cut paper collages depicting a white owl, a nest in a tree, and three hatchlings – one of which was always cut from a scrap of white paper with tiny black polka dots. The collage today depicted flying lessons with the little owlets tumbling in the air under the watchful eye of their mother, catching the dangerous attention of a green snake hiding in the weeds.

“Corporal Evans,” she spoke softly so as to not startle him. Some of the soldiers were extremely skittish. Haunted green eyes peered at her over the frames of ugly NHS spectacles. “It is almost time for your meds.”

The dark haired soldier cleaned up his work table, replacing the supplies more neatly than he had found them. He carefully set his incomplete collage and the uneven scrap of the polka dot paper into his lap and wheeled back toward his bed.

Nurse Barton watched him travel the hallway. The entire time he had been an inmate of Selly Oaks, Corporal Harmon James Evans had never uttered a sound.

~*~*~*  
Two and One Half Years Later

Seeing the line of red tail lights in front of him, Sev shifted the Peterbuilt [1] into a lower gear. The pre-holiday traffic had combined with the afternoon rush hour, leaving traffic on the Interstate a slowing creep.

Sev’s dark eyes quickly looked in both rear view mirrors as he watched headlights grow closer. A black SUV disappeared into the semi’s blind spot.

“Silly bint needs to learn how to drive,” he muttered under his breath. Despite the large decal on the back of the semi trailer delineating a truck’s blind spots, drivers continued to ignore the warnings.

Sev slowed the truck, first to a crawl and then to a stand still. He could see flashing emergency lights in the horizon. The forty-four year old wizard flipped on the overhead dome light, reached for a roadmap, and searched for an alternate route. He half listened to the song playing on the radio, grateful that it wasn’t another insipid Christmas song.

“…It’s a pretty good livin’, but it ain’t no life  
For a farmer’s daughter or a drunk man’s wife  
Peter built a truck for a man to drive…” [2]

He pushed the radio scan seek button, tuning into another station. Out here in Middle America, there wasn’t much to choose from on the airwaves except Country, Easy Listening or milquetoast Rock n’ Roll. A woman’s sweet voice filled the cab.

“…And it’s a pity that your lover died young, but…you’ll never get tired of livin’ alone….” [3]

Sweet Merlin, Sev thought, as his hand collided with his passenger’s fingers as they both decided that after days on the road, they had had their fill of gut-wrenching Muggle Country music sob stories. The scanner stopped on a National Public Radio commentary.

Sev glanced toward his companion and gave him a sardonic grin. Harry’s tired eyes sparkled in amusement as he peered up at the taller man over the top of rimless spectacles. Harry settled back in the black vinyl seat and closed his eyes, listening to the commentator wax nostalgically on Christmas’ Past spent in the company of a crazy aunt.

Two tow trucks crept along the right berm of the Interstate, wending their way through the stalled traffic to the disabled cars ahead. Sev shut off the engine; there was no sense wasting the expensive diesel fuel.

~*~*~*  
The trucker hiked up his drooping blue jeans, staring at the semis parked in the truck stop, and waited patiently beside the cash register for one of the waitresses at “Grandma Jean’s Kitchen and Gift Shop” to ring him out.

His lip curled in disgust; he muttered an expletive. “Grandma” Jean herself slapped him sharply on the hand. They were in the middle of the “Bible Belt” and that kind of language was not welcome in her establishment.

“Sorry, Jean,” he mumbled. “You know…I don’t got nothin’ against faggots…live and let live, ya know…But I don’t want to be seein’ it….”

Jean plucked her eyeglasses from a rhinestone encrusted cord around her neck and hooked them behind her ears. She followed the trucker’s pointing finger into the parking lot toward a bright green Peterbuilt and a matching trailer. The trailer had the black silhouette of a small frog capturing a fly with its tongue and the script “Ranuculus Trucking” [4] on both the trailer and cab door. The driver, a tall, thin man had a smaller man held in a hug against his chest.

Jean burst into laughter.

“Harvey, you idiot…that’s Severin Prince’s rig and he’d kick your sorry butt around the block twice for suggesting he’s a queen.”

Harvey gave the woman a confused look, but his expression melted into embarrassment as he glanced at the men in the parking lot again. The shiny metal of wrist cuff crutches glittered in the afternoon sunlight as the smaller man picked his way through the uneven surface of the asphalt, trying not to catch his nearly useless legs in the potholes or patches of ice.

“Oh, he’s brought Harmon on the road with him.” Jean’s voice was delighted. “Sev’s boy used to be one of them NATO Peacekeepers over in Afghanistan. His patrol was hit by a suicide bomber a couple of years ago and they sent him back to Sev in bits.”

Jean finished ringing up the trucker’s lunch order. “You have yourself a nice Christmas, Harvey.”

Harvey stepped out into the crisp cold of the late December day, reaching for his keychain. He watched the crippled man carefully maneuver his brace encased legs up the high curb leading to the sidewalk. Harvey was saddened to note just how young the disabled soldier actually was.

Harvey walked past the pair and strode out into the parking lot. He looked at the dark clouds gathering in the Western sky and hoped he would make it home to Idaho before Christmas.

~*~*~*  
Large puffy snowflakes danced in the air beyond the window. The Muzak was playing Muggle pop music interspersed with Christmas carols. Harry spooned the steaming sausage gravy over a thick flaky buttermilk biscuit, a satisfied smile emerging as the warm, homey food filled his empty stomach.

Sev slowly chewed a forkful of scrambled egg and washed it down with coffee. He had driven through most of the night to make up time due to the slow traffic the day before; he would probably down a Pepper-Up potion once they returned to the truck.

A potion, he thought with a touch of melancholy. Sev ran his hand through his close cropped hair and thought of the twists his life had taken. Vilified on all sides as a Blood Traitor, Death Eater, Double Agent, Spy and all around greasy git, the Potion Master fled Wizarding Britain to a promised position at the Salem Institute of Magic in the United States. North American wizards viewed him, oddly enough, as a war hero, forced by circumstance to do the unthinkable, to end the suffering of a mentor cursed with a horrific and incurable curse. They did not view his hand in the “murder” of Albus Dumbledore as anything less than pre-arranged euthanasia. 

But upon reaching the Massachusetts shores, the Institute Mediwitch discovered he was suffering from a potions overload – caused by more than thirty-five years constant exposure to often toxic potion fumes. He also suffered from overexposure to dark magic. His body was severely poisoned and the prescribed cure was a five to seven year sabbatical from nearly all exposure to magic. Being cautioned against casting any spell stronger than an “Accio” or a “Nox”, it was probably fortunate he was a Half-Blood; the prospect of being a near-Squib would have terrified most Purebloods.

Unable to take the Potions Professorship at Salem and unwilling to return to the hatred of the European wizarding community, Sev was forced to find steady employment elsewhere. The Potion Master was put into contact with a career placement center run for Squibs.

Growing up, Sev had little in common with his estranged Muggle father, Tobias Snape, but the older man had taught him how to drive a motor vehicle. He seemed to have inherited his father’s love of the open road and coupled with years of near confinement at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Sev discovered in himself a case of late blooming wanderlust. The dark wizard learned to drive big rigs and was soon hired on as a long distance driver for Ranuculus Trucking, his CDL identifying him as Severin T. Prince.

Harry propelled himself out of the men’s rest room as Sev called for directions from a pay phone. He glanced around the small gift shop, looking at ornaments for their first Christmas tree. He picked up a box of twelve clear plastic snowflakes made to look like glass and thought how pretty the fairy lights would sparkle through them. The crippled wizard sighed; he could not carry the box of ornaments and walk at the same time. Surrounded by Muggles, he could not levitate them either. Harry would need to get one of the shopping baskets near the cash register first. He tried to catch Sev’s eye, but the tall man was still at the pay phone writing in a notebook.

Harry stopped at a small display of children’s books on a table beside a rack of stuffed animals wearing little heart-shaped tags. His hand rested on a boxed set of two chubby cardboard picture books - “The Brave Little Owl” and “An Owl and Her Boy” – art and story by Harmon Evans. Sandwiched between the two preschool books was a small stuffed owl. Harry turned the box over, glancing at a photograph of himself with Hedwig on his shoulder. His fingers paused on the elderly snowy owl; he missed his beloved familiar when he was on the road with Severus.

Sev joined his smaller companion. He plucked the box set out of Harry’s hands.

“Didn’t your publisher send you advance copies?” Harry nodded, reaching for the box. Sev was rather proud of Harry’s accomplishment - the “New York Times” had even printed a tiny featurette in their “Christmas Gifts” special edition. 

“But you want the boxed set with the Little Hedwig?....That’s fine. Did you find anything else you wanted? I still have to settle the tab.”

Harry made his way back to the snowflake ornaments. Sev took the box without comment and picked up a second box as well. For a piece of Muggle plastic, they were at least tasteful. He knew how much Harry was looking forward to decorating the small artificial tree still sitting in its original carton just inside their kitchen door.

~*~*~*  
Sev argued over the telephone with the owner of Ranuculus Trucking while his trailer was being unloaded at the shipping hub in Peoria, Illinois. He had already been on the road for thirteen days and his contract with Ranuculus stated he would work fourteen days with three days off plus holidays. Normally a last minute change in plans would not have sent him into a tirade, but this was supposed to be his first Muggle Christmas with Harry.

Sev straightened his back and forcefully hung up the receiver. His inner Slytherin wanted to send a hex through the telephone lines to his employer. As the workers re-loaded his trailer, Sev angrily pulled “Wisconsin” out of a stack of maps and pored at it over the steering wheel. Harry’s bright eyes darkened as he plucked the cargo manifest from the dashboard - Kenosha, Wisconsin.

The Potion Master looked up from his map and took one of Harry’s hands in his own. He stared unflinchingly into the accusatory green eyes.

“Raoul was running a Slosher [5] from Chicago to Kenosha. He rolled his rig coming down a freeway ramp…”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“Didn’t kill him, thank Merlin….pretty busted up though….had to life-flight him to hospital….rigs a total loss….”

Harry’s teeth worked at his lower lip. Sev wrapped his arm around the slender shoulders. “I am so sorry, love. I know I promised you Christmas, but Stewart insists we pick up Raoul’s load in Kenosha and drop it off back in Peoria before heading to Erie and home to Salem.” Sev’s hand rested on Harry’s stubbled cheek before he remembered where they were and pulled back. The other drivers were under the mistaken impression that Harry was his son or his brother; at some of the places on his route, it was safer to reinforce that notion.

“When we stop for the night, I will Side-Along Apparate you back to Salem…You can get the cottage decorated and spend some time with Viktor Krum and his wife as we planned….I should roll in late Boxing Day.”

Harry shook his head violently. He did not want to be alone for Christmas. He had spent too many holidays alone or with strangers and he refused to spend another one sitting at his kitchen table pretending all was well.

Harry clutched Sev’s hands in his own and wished words would flow from his mouth, but nothing came out. He pointed to the city on the manifest.

“You want to stay with me….even if it means we spend Christmas in a flea infested hotel?”

Harry smiled; he let his hand drop to Sev’s thigh and gave it a squeeze.

“I need to check on the load before the doors are sealed. The weather report calls for lake effect snow and I don’t need the load shifting.”

Harry made a swishing movement with his hand as if he were casting magic, but there was no wand in his hand. It would not be the first time Sev’s rig had been layered in Harry’s protective spells.

~*~*~*  
Sev set aside his current month’s subscription to “Potions Monthly – North American Edition” and turned off the bedside lamp. Harry was beside him, curled up and asleep. The younger wizard was sleeping fitfully, caught in another one of his nightmares. The Potion Master wished the Dreamless Sleep potion wasn’t so addicting; the pain in Harry’s shattered legs made it hard enough for the young man to achieve a restful sleep as it was.

The dark wizard cast a modified Silencing Charm on the small motel room. Although Harry was incapable of speech most of the time while he was conscious, his subconscious did not always remain mute. Sev did not want to have to explain Harry’s screams to the other occupants of the building, nor did he want to plead Post Traumatic Distress Syndrome to a police officer.

He ran his hands through Harry’s sweat dampened hair and tried to sooth him out of the nightmare without waking him. Harry’s flashbacks were often disturbing. Viktor Krum, now a Mediwizard at St. Bernadette’s Hospital in Salem, Massachusetts once suggested a surgically precise oblivation, but Harry refused. The battle field horrors and the resulting condemnation by the “Light” wizards had shaped Harry into the adult he now was just as much as any other event in his young life. Harry feared that if he continued to lose parts of himself, he would soon lose sight of himself altogether.

~*~*~  
Harry’s body thrashed on the motel bed; his mind was unable to break free from his memories. Sev wrapped him tightly into the blanket to keep the flailing arms and legs from physical damage. The Potion Master rocked Harry back and forth to comfort him, all the while whispering words in his ears.

“Percival Weasley and the Aurors can’t hurt you any more, love. You are not and never will be the next Dark Lord. Only a fool would believe that Lord Voldemort could have been defeated using Light Magic alone. Dumbledore didn’t use Light magic when he took down Grindelwald…You did nothing to deserve a Dementor’s Kiss….They were fools.”

On the battlefield, Harry had finally ended the reign of the Dark Lord Voldemort, using a modification of the magic he had used to destroy all of the dark wizard’s Horcruxes. Exhausted from the excessive drain of his magic – both Dark and Light – Harry collapsed beside the smoldering remains of Tom Marvolo Riddle. Instead of gratitude, the Ministry of Magic damned his use of Dark spells, snapped his wand, and condemned him to receive a Dementor’s Kiss. Casting a “Petrificus Totalus” upon the would be savior, Percy Weasley decided to leave Harry unable to defend himself against the Dementors when they arrived on the field of battle to take care of all imprisoned Death Eaters. The Ministry would not waste their time or galleons on trials this time. 

Dean Thomas watched the drama play out from behind a copse of trees. The Muggleborn wizard watched as the wizards attacked his friend and decided that he would never understand this alien culture. Harry had done everything they had ever asked of him. Only a fool would think he could defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named without using magic as dark as the snake-faced bastard himself. Having denied him a childhood and a life of his own, their weapon was now to be disposed of like so much rubbish. Dean waited until the cluster of wizards deserted the immobilized “Chosen One” and then strode over to his friend.

“Finite Incantium” 

Dean swiftly hauled the disoriented Harry to his feet and Apparated both of them away from the battlefield. From that moment, both seventeen year old Gryffindors turned their backs on Wizarding Britain.

~*~*~*  
Harry fastened the last buckle on his leg braces before working his flannel lined denims over the bulky framework. Over the thin layer of thermal underwear he added a plaid wool shirt.

Silently and wandlessly, Harry summoned his crutches. Sev was due back with breakfast; soon they would be leaving Peoria for a second time in that many days, a full thirty-six hours behind their original schedule.

Harry rested his hand on the still shrink-wrapped boxed set of preschool books and smiled at the small white stuffed owlet decorated with tiny black polka dots. Harry felt pride well up in his chest; he was a published author of children’s books before he turned twenty-five. It was a feat he accomplished without the dubious influence of “The Boy Who Lived”.

After leaving the magical world, Dean and Harry took their A Levels and entered the Muggle world as adults. Dean emigrated to Ontario, Canada with his Muggle family and was completing a university degree. Harry had his name legally changed to Harmon James Evans on the off chance the Ministry of Magic decided to pursue their “dangerous” war criminal - “Harry Bloody Potter”. After much deliberation, he decided on a career in the military and thought he had finally found a place where his “freakishness” was appreciated. 

Harry lay back on the motel bed, stretching out as much as his legs would permit. He set the boxed set on his chest and closed his eyes. It was funny how life turned out sometimes.

~*~*~  
Nurse Barton wheeled the last of the ward patients out into the sunshine of an early fall afternoon. Most of the British soldiers had already cycled out of Selly Oakes, their numbers rapidly being replaced by additional military casualties. But the mute corporal remained, recovering from his fourth surgery to repair the complex fractures of patella, tibia, fibula and tarsals of both legs as well as attempts to re-attach and re-construct the ligaments, muscles and tendons holding the shattered mess together. Sometimes she wondered why surgeons hadn’t just amputated his legs at the knees. If they had chosen that route, the young man would already be fitted with prosthetic legs and learning how to walk again.

Harmon closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun caress his face. He heard the distinctive flutter of massive wings and he opened his eyes in astonishment. A large snowy owl circled the sky above him. She fluttered down to alight on his shoulder, careful to sheath her razor sharp talons.

Intending to shoo the creature away, Nurse Barton froze as the owl affectionately rubbed her head against the corporal’s cheek. Harmon lifted his hand, caressing her soft feathers.

“Brave girl,” he whispered hoarsely as the owl preened his short cropped hair.

The nurse thought back to the little polka dotted owlet in Corporal Evans’ collages and found herself looking in the grass for the threatening snake also depicted in many of the images.

The owl continued to visit periodically, there was no sign of a snake in the hospital garden, and Corporal Evans never spoke another word.

~*~*~  
The weather forecast was full of news of an impending Christmas snowstorm. The weather man kept droning on about Alberta Clippers and the Lake Effect. The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm as the wet snowflakes began to accumulate on the windshield. Sev hoped their luck held out and they could keep ahead of the worst of the storm.

Sev sipped tepid coffee from the thermos. They were still making fairly good time as they crossed Western Ohio. The sky above Lake Erie was ominous; until the Great Lakes finally froze over, early winter snowstorms could leave substantial accumulations. Just west of Cleveland, Sev pulled the rig into a truck stop for a late lunch, extra sandwiches and late breaking weather reports.

By the time the semi reached Ashtabula County in far Eastern Ohio, the winds had picked up, causing the road conditions to rapidly deteriorate in near white out conditions. The radio was full of weather related warnings, event cancellations, road closings and the infernal Christmas songs. After the third station played “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” Sev vowed that next December he would be hitting the road with the entire “Lord of the Rings” trilogy as a book on tape to preserve his sanity. Harry made a mental note to order the trilogy for Sev’s birthday in early January.

As the day before Christmas became Christmas Eve, the roads behind them closed and the on and off ramps were impassible. They were less than thirty miles from the shipping hub just east of Erie, Pennsylvania. Stubbornly, the dark wizard kept driving, hoping against hope that they would reach their destination – a budget motel across the street from the now closed truck stop.

Harry felt the nerves in his stomach tighten as the brief breaks in the blizzard revealed a road surface polished by the wind to a mirror like shine. The road was littered with spun out vehicles. Sev’s knuckles were white as he fought to keep the rig under control. The radio had late breaking news of a multiple car pileup where Route 76 merged with the I-90 just ahead. Police cars were blocking the Interstate so the traffic was forced onto a barely passable side road.

Harry could not find the new route on the map but kept their course parallel to the now-closed Interstate as best he could. Sev was afraid that if he stopped the truck, they would never get it going again in the ever deepening snow. Stalled cars blocked lanes as the truck threaded through the drifts. The long trailer began to sway and Sev was grateful for the protective charms Harry had cast over the truck that morning. As the trailer swayed further out of alignment, Sev tried to stop the pendulum movement, but the massive weight of the cargo sped up the momentum as the truck began to jack knife.

Knowing Harry did not realize the danger they were in for rollover, Sev pushed Harry down in the seat, hoping that if the cab did roll, they would not be crushed to death. He could not stop the forces now controlling the Peterbuilt and her trailer, but he tried valiantly to control the direction of the slide. The windows filled with white as the night sky was enveloped in a wave of snow. 

~*~*~  
Sev cupped his hand beneath his nose, catching the blood streaming from the battered appendage. It did not seem to have been broken. He could taste a copper-like taste in his mouth, his tongue carefully searching all surfaces to make sure none of his teeth had been knocked out by the force of the airbag exploding into his face and chest.

Beside him, Harry’s pale face was a welcome sight. His eyeglasses had been bent by the force of the airbag, and the edge of the lenses cut into his cheek.

“Are you all right?” 

Harry nodded. Sev let out a relieved sigh and then tried to ascertain how badly the rig was damaged. The cab appeared to have stopped upright in a farm field and, while the cab did not roll, the trailer was tilted at an unnatural angle. There was no way they were going any further without the use of a tow truck. The headlights of the truck cab cast an eerie glow in the raging blizzard. Sev turned off the engine; until he checked the undercarriage, he did not want to risk carbon monoxide poisoning if the exhaust was blocked or broken.

The dark wizard reached for his cell phone, intending to send out a call for assistance, but he could not get a clear signal. Perhaps when the storm abated, it would be possible to try again.

~*~*~  
Sev climbed between the front seats and entered the sleeper cab. His breath made frosty clouds inside the frigid rig. The wind chill factor had to be in negative numbers by now and all warmth was being slowly sucked from the damaged cab. He had tried to inspect the rig and to see if he could see any lights glowing in the distance, but there was no ambient light in the sky, just the stinging of icy snow against his cheek. Even if he could see a house in the distance, it was too cold to venture away from the shelter of the cab and he would not leave Harry behind.

He folded down the upper bunk bed and unfurled a length of fabric attached to it. Using the same charms as a wizard space camping tent, the fabric unfurled into a tiny bedchamber, complete with lavatory. To any Muggle looking into the sleeper, it would appear that both of the cab’s bunk beds were in use. Until the storm broke and assistance arrived, they would need to crawl beneath the blankets to preserve their body heat. Hypothermia and frostbite were an immediate threat with Harry’s fragile health.

Sev’s eyes rested on the boxes of plastic snowflakes in a pile on the floor and he thought of Christmas plans gone awry.

~*~*~  
Harry removed his leg braces and pulled his twisted legs under the thick duvet. Sev set the discarded armatures and the crutches into the front passenger seat to prevent a possible tripping hazard and climbed back into the tiny room. Removing his heavy boots and damp denims, he crawled under the covers. With a lazy flick of his wand, he cast a simple heating charm; it would help ward off the bone chilling cold.

They had discussed the possibility of Apparation to a secure location, but decided that if someone stumbled across the abandoned rig, they would assume that the occupants had tried to hike to safety and may attempt a rescue. The storm had turned deadly and their comfort was not worth a rescuer risking his life to find them. At worst case scenario, the cab held several days of emergency supplies, and the magical room would provide them creature comforts.

Harry snuggled against Sev’s long body. This was not how he had imagined their First Christmas together as “Muggles”, but his disappointment was short lived. Nothing in the former Harry Potter’s life had ever gone according to plan and Harmon Evans’ life was proving not to be boring either. He closed his eyes and took a short nap. He was tired and knew Sev had to be exhausted.

~*~*~

”Harry,” Sev murmured into his ear before rolling Harry onto his back. The younger man opened his eyes, blinking at a glow in the corner of the room. He pushed himself up on his elbows and stared. In the corner of the sleeper cab, Sev had conjured a small Christmas tree and hung the plastic snowflakes from the branches, the fairy lights casting small rainbow arcs on the wall.

“Happy Christmas, Harry.” He said softly before capturing the pink lips in a gentle kiss. He tucked Harry beneath his chin and just held him. A year ago he would have hexed anyone foolish enough to suggest that this particular cheeky brat would effectively worm a way into his black, black heart.

~*~*~  
Hermione Granger looked up from her desk, surprised to find a once familiar Postal Owl perched on her bookcase. The snowy owl dropped a tatty newspaper clipping into her lap before launching herself back out the window to wait in a more comfortable tree branch.

Perplexed, Hermione examined the newsprint. It was an article about Selly Oaks NHS Hospital in Birmingham, but this one seemed to have a public relations spin to it rather than the recent news condemning the facility for understaffing problems, overcrowding, and the inadvisability of placing injured servicemen in the open wards. She remembered an article about a soldier being attacked in his bed by another patient who may or may not have been a psychiatric patient. It irritated her that they had singled out Selly Oaks when the facility was suffering from the same problems that had been inherent in NHS for years. 

But what was in the article that caused Hedwig to find her after an almost five-year absence? 

The article seemed to be about the Art Therapy ward and “how mental health professionals believed that the creative process involved in making art is healing and life-enhancing and can increase awareness of self, cope with symptoms, stress, and traumatic experiences, increase cognitive abilities, and enjoy the life-affirming pleasures of artistic creativity.”[6] It seemed to be focusing on returning injured NATO Peacekeepers. Why had Hedwig brought her this article?

Hermione looked at a photograph accompanying the article and saw a young man, identified as Corporal Harmon J. Evans of Little Whinging, Surrey, working on a cut paper collage of what seemed to be a snowy owl. She blinked. Little Whinging? 

“Sweet Morgana,” she exclaimed. Hedwig had brought her a picture of Harry!

Three days later, Severin Prince received an urgent owl from Mediwizard Viktor Krum at St. Bernadette’s Hospital in Salem requesting his professional services for an unusual patient. Viktor acknowledged that while the Potion Master would be unable to brew his own potions due to his medical condition, the Mediwizard was more in need of his vast knowledge than of an actual brewer.

Sev arrived at St. Bernadette’s to discover Viktor had used an illegal International Portkey to kidnap a patient out of a British Muggle hospital on the behest of his fiancée, Hermione Granger. Nothing could have prepared the Potion Master to discover a barely coherent Harry Potter. Unable to speak, he was recovering from numerous barbaric surgical procedures on his shattered legs, suffering from an especially virulent strain of a staph infection and apparently in the early stages of an addiction to Morphine. 

It was particularly frustrating to discover that they may never be able to cure the extensive damage to Harry’s legs, but slowly the trio managed to nurse the young man back into a semblance of sanity. And through it all, as Harry continued to make his cut paper collages, “The Brave Little Owl” and “An Owl and Her Boy” came to life. 

~*~*~*  
A heavy fist pounding against the cab door and a man’s shout woke Sev out of a light slumber. He shook Harry awake and crawled out of the nest of blankets. He looked out of the cracked windshield and saw that the storm had lulled. A man in a heavily insulated jumpsuit was peering into the cab.

“You boys okay?” He shouted. Sev tried to open the driver’s side door, but the snow was almost up to the hood of the cab. The dark wizard flicked on the overhead light and rolled down the window a crack. The man’s eyes fell on the leg braces and the crutches. He looked up into Sev’s bruised face. “I’ll radio back to base for someone to dig you out. Don’t look like you’re in any condition for a hike.”

~*~*~  
Harry curled his hands around a steaming mug of hot chocolate and looked up at the sky through the plate-glass window of the North East Volunteer Fire Hall. Sev was asleep on a cot beside him in the makeshift emergency shelter rescuers had taken them to. The storm had blown itself out a few hours ago and it was now officially Christmas Morning. Beyond the window, the snow glittered in the pale light of the moon, and Harry felt at peace with himself.

It was not the Christmas Morning he had dreamed of back in Salem, filled with fairy lights, wrapping paper and snuggling by the fire. Sev awoke and joined him on his cot, wrapping a long arm around his thin shoulders. They sat, side by side and watched the sun begin to rise. Behind them was the bustle of local volunteers cooking breakfast, but they remained oblivious to the mayhem.

Harry’s green eyes sparkled as Sev kissed him chastely on the top of the head. He thought about Sev’s makeshift Christmas tree and realized he had already received his most precious gift. Nothing about either man had ever been conventional. What had ever made him think that they would share a conventional Christmas?

FIN

 

[1] Peterbuilt – an American manufacturer of semi trucks and cabs.  
[2] Song - “Bonnie Jean (Little Sister)” – David Lynn Jones  
[3] Song - “Daddy Said” – Nanci Griffith  
[4] Ranuculus – Latin for a small frog  
[5] Slosher – a tanker carrying a liquid filled less than 3/4 full – as the load is unstable, it is considered an unnecessary risk to the life of truck drivers.  
[6] Art Therapy – a definition lifted straight from Wikipedia, the free online encyclopedia (http://en.wikipedia.org)

Clara Barton was an "Angel of the Battlefield" (nurse) during the American Civil War and went on to help found the American Red Cross.

Author’s Note: I was struck with this image of Severus wearing jeans and flannel behind the wheel of a big rig and a stray plotbunny of Harry leaving the magical world and being injured in a Muggle war. This little confection was the result. Any information about semi trucks, NATO Peacekeepers, Art Therapy, and the overburdened Selly Oaks NHS Hospital was gleaned from the Internet. I do, however, have intimate experience with Alberta Clippers, Lake Effect snowstorms, and traveling the snowbelt of the Great Lakes.


End file.
